He raises his wand, the tip glowing, and cups my chin—far too gently.
I shiver at his touch, my skin goose-bumping, and horror hums at the edges of my thoughts. I am unused to being touched, not by strange men, certainly not byhim. Yet he is so gentle, he angles my head as if I might shatter.
“Pupils dilating—good. No obvious head injury. The blast must have knocked you flat. You’re lucky to be alive. Let me help you up.”
He speaks as if finding nameless women in burning woods is routine.
He smells of pine—the forest itself—and… coconut, perhaps with a hint of vanilla. Sweet, gentle, familiar yet off-kilter. Coconuts were a luxury in my day, so perhaps my new nose is faulty.
Shouldn’t the Magic Hunter reek of poisonous potions, ash, and the blood of his victims?
I try to inch away, but he steps forward, flicks the wand, and conjures a sphere of light that bathes the clearing in pale gold, stinging my new eyes.
“It’s all right. I’m Lander, Lander Kane, council operative. You’re safe. I’m sorry the first responders missed you. We’re lucky it’s June. You could have died of exposure if the weather were colder. Where are your shoes?”
I shake my head.
“The blast must have blown them off. I’ll have to carry you if that’s okay.” He does not wait for permission. His arms fold around me. The shock of contact—warmth, weight—ignites something primal.
Utter terror.
My heart hammers; a small, pathetic squeak escapes.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs.
He hoists me against his chest, brushing twigs from my tangled hair, and cradles me effortlessly in one arm while he pushes the branches aside with the other.
The Magic Hunter supports me as if I were a small sack of grain, not a full-grown woman. I glance up, and my breath catches. He was handsome from afar, but up close—with human eyes—he is devastating.
“We’ll get you to a healer, then home.”
Home.The word aches. I have no home, no identity, only this borrowed flesh.
I must befriend him, hide the truth.
“Th-thank you,” I croak.
Huh, apparently Icanspeak. I just have to fear for my life before my vocal cords decide to cooperate. The voice is soft, unfamiliar, nothing like the one inside my head.
The raven caws from a nearby limb.
“A familiar?” he asks. I say nothing. “Were you alone? Do we need to search for friends?”
“Alone,” I whisper.
He ducks beneath yellow tape that rings the crash site, and I refuse to look back at the charred trees and scorched circle of earth.
I still cannot believe he is carrying me. Yes, I ambarefoot, and he may be shielding my feet from sharp stones and twigs, but more likely he worries his witness—or prime suspect—might bolt.
“I’m sorry I haven’t any healing potions,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip. “It’s been a long day, and I’m magically tapped out.”
‘Tapped out,’ what a load of codswallop. He is a beautiful liar. His magic bleeds from him in black, rolling smoke, coiling around my wrists and arms. Warm, heavy. I resist the urge to swat it away.
Yet the sight of his magic steadies me. Most mages cannot see such vapours; I had feared I was now pure human, that the ley line crash had stripped me of all my magic. But it has not.
“I heard about the explosion and came to investigate. I’m glad I did. I’m glad you’re safe.”
Safe.My heart is beating so hard, it feels as though it is going to explode in my chest. I tremble, still unused to skin, to breath, to being cradled by the man who tried to unmake me only hours ago.
